This visit we each took a sketch pad and pencil. Clearly sketching helps me look in a new way. And then, there is the camera, the results of which I’m sharing here.
What could be better than to celebrate my birthday with my granddaughter at the MFA? It has become a tradition to go there whenever she visits. Our routine is simple. We arrive at 10 so we can park in the lot right next to the entrance. We leave our coats in the car so we don’t need to stand in line to check them. Always, and I mean always, we head directly to the Egyptian Wing, her favorite. From there we wander at random until we reach the cafeteria. After lunch we wander some more, always to the Renaissance gallery, my favorite. And then, at the exact same moment, we look at each other and agree that it is time to head home. This visit we each took a sketch pad and pencil. Clearly sketching helps me look in a new way. And then, there is the camera, the results of which I’m sharing here.
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Here I am blogging about another day here at the cottage. Weather (fog and rain) sunrise (none), early rising (5:15), writing (lots), reading (ditto), praying (ditto), knitting (not yet) jigsaw puzzle (finished New England Lighthouses, started Benozzo Gozzoli’s The Procession of the Magi), walking (none, raining), food (coffee, sticky bun, oatmeal, tomato red pepper soup, avocado on rice cakes), nap (always). That’s it so far, with more of the same until bedtime at 9:15. Only addition, food (apple, spaghetti and meatballs, more broccoli, banana). There’s a monastic saying that goes something like this: stay in your cell and you cell will teach you everything you need to know. Well, I’ve stayed put in this cell of a cottage. I haven’t been in the car since I arrived Sunday afternoon, and I won’t drive anywhere until I go home tomorrow after lunch. I called a friend yesterday, but other than that, it’s been silent; no human voices, no music, no TV. What a colossal ruse, however, that I’ll learn everything I need to know. Nevertheless, this silence, solitude and simplicity seems to be teaching me something. I’m experiencing a family version of silence, solitude and simplicity, which really means there isn’t much. This afternoon, however, five family members have gone off on various excursions; the three of us remaining are enjoying that old-fashioned ‘quiet hour’. That may take care of the silence and solitude, but what about simplicity, which is a different kind of challenge? When it comes to keeping up with all the clutter that seems to appear out of nowhere, one solution is: Don’t keep cleaning up! That works for the craft table, but cooking and clearing up is an on-going activity and not always simple. The best solution is: Don't stress out! Street Artists: Part Three. What do my tales of these street artists have to do with silence, solitude and simplicity? Why did I want to share this on my blog? It (whatever it is) is more feeling that logic, or shall I say that it’s just simple? Life feels complete when I watch the painter’s brush dance about the canvass or hear the sound from the musician’s bow. There is an ease I feel inside myself when I come upon the artist. I sense that he is looking for solitude, too, and so at that moment when I toss him a coin, we are in solidarity. I find that the blessing of solitude comes over me at odd moments, in odd places, on the streets of Florence for example, as I listen to someone fiddling her heart out. Street Artists, Part Two. How do these street artists earn a living? I don’t know the official procedure but I have the sense that they don’t just show up and start painting or performing, or go to some touristy spot, claim their territory and then receive a salary. I do know, however, that each one of them sets out a container, be it a hat, violin case, or plain old box, to invite tips from those passing by. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s their only income source. The musicians at the major piazzas are established enough to display CDs for sale. The sidewalk artists paint within a bronze frame secured into the pavement, which makes me think they have an assigned spot. As for the statue artists, although they move about, I believe they have their own official territories. Then there are the artists with an established spot outside the Pitti Palace or Uffizi or along the Arno, who paint and sell scenes of Florence and Tuscany, or who draw caricatures of happy tourists. If I stop on the street and watch these artists on the street, I always toss a few coins their way. Street Artists, Part One. This rainy day is just the right day to peruse the photos of my September trip to Italy. I can’t believe that I’ve been home for a little over five weeks; it seems so long ago. And yet, was it just yesterday that I was stumbling upon the street artists of Florence? One day on the sidewalk an artist would be copying a Vermeer, the next day only faint color remained. Outside the Uffizi, statues of Leonardo or Dante would disappear, only to reappear in the Piazza della Signoria. Every evening musicians appeared along the Loggia dei Lanzi. I hear it’s been it’s been a rainy fall in Florence since I left. Where do the artist go as the weather changes and the tourists thin out? Today my plan was to visit the church of Santa Maria Novella, but along the way I made a few unexpected stops, which is particularly easy to do when traveling alone. You want to stop at the exhibit of the Parte Guelfa? Go right ahead. A merry-go-round ride? Sure. Join the crowds at Orsanmichele? Why not? Antipasto at Ciro’s? By all means. The Palazzo di Parte Guelfa, usually not open to the public, was completing a month-long exhibit of contemporary paintings and today was the last day. I entered with some trepidation because the reception room looked rather disorganized and the director appeared surprised to see me. But, once again Boston seemed to be the ticket. He had visited there twenty-five years ago! With that began a private tour of the headquarters of this important political party in 12th,13th and 14th century Italy: the public hall designed by Brunelleschi (1377-1446), with ceiling and side paneling by Vasari (1511-1574) a hundred or so years later: the secret door in the paneling leading to a little terrace over looking the piazza below: and finally the private rooms of the party, with a little medallion of the head of Christ sculpted by Donatello above the door. My advice: wherever you go, enter with or without trepidation; just be sure to enter.
This Sunday morning I visited my favorite cathedral and favorite monastery church and all before 11 o’clock. Up early to Santa Maria dei Fiori for Mass. I’ve learned through the years that one way to enter these huge cathedrals before they become crowded with tourists is to go to early mass. And so I did. Outside a side entrance I encountered a friendly, optimistic old priest, cane-in-hand, waiting for security to open the doors for 7:30 Mass. “I’m a priest here….Oh, I love Boston… I’ve been to Worcester. And New York…Poughkeepsie. I decided that I would try Mass again under this magnificent dome. It would be my third time. The other two were rather upsetting; I must have exuded guilt that I was a non-Roman Catholic taking Communion. The first time, easily more than fifteen years, I was reprimanded by the priest. I came forward with open hands, only to have him shake a finger in my face and with a loud “NO” place the wafer in my mouth. I figured he was speaking out against Vatican II, but it sure shook me up—I’m not accustomed to being yelled at by men (or women). A few years later I tried again, but this time the priest called me back, and then said, “Va bene,” and I returned to my seat. It seems that he hadn’t see me eat the wafer and was concerned that I was saving it. (To sell? To save? To give to someone?) I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but clearly I didn’t know the rules. So, with trepidation I decided to try again, and this time all went well. There was my friendly priest who loves Boston helping me on my way. Next on to the Church of St. Francis, a hefty climb from the piazza in Fiesole where Bus 7 from the Piazza San Marco in Florence had left me at the central square. A twenty minute ride through the suburbs of Florence and then up the winding ‘Fiesole hills’ with magnificent views of Florence and the Duomo below. A magical spot. The Franciscan complex, situated on the top of a hill, is a simple, working monastery. The section open to the public includes a small church with some minor early Renaissance paintings, two miniscule cloisters, and a winding staircase leading to six cells of the early monks. Ah, if I were a privileged monk I’d have two cells; one here in Fiesole, and another in Florence at the Convent of San Marco. What arrogance; I have a long way to go!!!!
Uffizi staircase
Traveling alone offers a simplicity of schedule. Follow your bliss. This morning I set out about 8. First stop, as always: cappuccino and today a pastry. Good thing because I was on my way and needed sustenance to last the morning. Next stop, photo op of the Ponte Vecchio in the early morning before the goldsmith shops opened and before crowds gathered to soak up all that golden sun and well-being. Early morning on the Ponte Vecchio And then, I found myself walking by the entrance to the Uffizi. No lines although I have an Amichi degli Uffizi pass that lets me by-pass the cues. In I went, settling into the 13th, 14th and 15th century rooms displaying Tuscan, Sienese and Florentine paintings--my favorites, without exception. No photographing allowed, which is a good thing: JUST LOOK AT THE PAINTINGS. The Uffizi has a recently constructed outside café on the roof of the Loggia de Lanzi. As is the way in Italy, if you sit down to drink your coffee, you play more; stand at the bar, you pay less. Fine. I know that. But today there was a twist. Since I chose to stand, my coffee was served in a Styrofoam cup; those sitting drank from the usual white porcelain. I figure this was the way for the attendants be sure we were all following the rules. But this was the first paper/Styrofoam cup I have seen in Italy. No Starbucks, no Dunkin’ Donuts advertisements thrown on the streets, because those companies don’t exist here. No coffee on the run for Italians; it’s all consumed at the local bars. Views from the Uffizi Please note that I didn't take a picture of my disposable cup .I sure hope this is the last that I’ll be writing about.
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Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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